I smell death. It is a cold, bitter scent that blossoms on the wind and catches, spreads like wildfire and makes every little bird freeze and every animal shudder. I am familiar with death. Familiar with its embrace. It is not as colt and heartless as one might think. No, it is, in fact, a soft black blanket that wraps around you, a mother's kiss on the brow. But I smell blood and life as well, and so I make haste, moving swiftly forward, and I cross from hot grass to carpets of sweet green grass. It's a haunting smell, blood; sickly salty sweet, a foul odor that rises, and today it's accompanied. Death and life. Yin and yang. I would have laughed if I had not sensed myself so close to someone. Panic; fear and wilder fear, a terrible horror; devastation and the welling of tears.

Hera. I am Hera yet again; curly-maned, cheer-faced, plump around the edges and with a grin that makes the sun look dim; I am a unicorn and a dog runs around my feet, bouncing in circles; the sun is hot and Mira is pretty, pale and slender beside me, the perfect wife. They disliked us being together, but we were as happy as two twitter-pated birds, as Mira always put it. Mira, my sweet Lady of the Court, with her serene face and crystal eyes. We had borne a colt, or rather, Divon had, the muddling, stubborn god he is. I heard the gods clash for days inside my head, sending me reeling and gasping for breath, and Mira would fetch servants and cry out for help, fearing a seizure or worse. Perhaps it was worse, being possessed by the gods. Arguing and arguing; complaints and fighting. It did not stop, until one day a season later, spring, and I found a colt at our feet.

Ah! Azeen! My only foal, lost in the never-ending yarn of time. It stitched and sewed, and changed in colors and varied in thickness; but it was always the same thread. The sneaky little thief!

I am jerked to my senses by the rank scent of blood and fresh waves of pain. Foals? For I am certain it must be. It is that time of year again. There is more panic, and my ears fall back in distress. "Calm!" I say, words that I, unfortunately, cannot hear. Despite my not-knowing, my words come right before the unknown mare speaks again. "There is a second child." A late comment, by any means, for I feel the subtle movements of the grass shifting to make way for new youth. My head wags a slight bit, and I step forward cautiously, head lowering. First, my muzzle carefully reaches out to find the mare; and then I maneuver around her, away from the foal, wary of crushing the little thing, and, also, a mother's wrath. They are always so protective during these first few minutes.

"You've done well, m'girl." I sigh, give a little huff, whether out of surprise or approval I cannot tell. Maybe m'girl is an old saying as well; but I'm older than too many, anyways. I can't fear words, for I cannot hear, so why do I ponder this so? Relax and enjoy myself. "Xylia. And you have chosen a good name for the foal- take good of-" Her or him? "-him." I decide on a split second note. Naturally, it is the wrong choice. Alas! An old mind.

[Perhaps not my best :| Not sure how much she would/wouldn't know! But poor Sohalia! D: ]

Fir0002/Flagstaffotos